Nowhere But Here
Page 47
“You telling me not to screw it up?”
“Yeah. I am.” Dad’s tall like me. A year ago, I matched his height. A few gray strands mingle with his short black hair. He exhales as if he’s weighted and that catches my attention. “That graduation gift was because we thought you’d be joining the business this week. It wasn’t a gift for joining the club.”
“I know.” In order to work for the security company, I earned my gun permit a few weeks ago.
“This stuff with Emily and the Riot has complicated our world. It’s a heavy thing, carrying. A certain responsibility. You can’t bring back a life once it’s taken. You know if you need to talk about anything...the club, this stuff with Emily...anything—I’m here.”
Raised in this life for eighteen years, I know this, but if Dad needs to say it, I’ll give him the respect he deserves. “I’m good.”
“Then we’re good. Watch your six,” he says as a reminder to watch my back.
“Same to you.”
Without a word to anyone, Eli and Cyrus straddle their bikes and strap on their helmets. That one act causes everyone else to mount up and start their motorcycles. Soon the yard shakes with the thunder of angry engines. Cyrus pulls out with Eli on his right. They head onto Thunder Road toward the main drag and the guys follow behind them in pairs.
On the porch, Mom watches the men ride off. She won’t sleep much until Dad’s back in town. Olivia appears beside Mom and wraps an arm around Mom’s waist. Sitting inside on the window seat with sexy disheveled hair is my responsibility for the next week: Emily.
Reminder to self: hands off.
Emily
FOR SOME ODD reason there’s a full-length mirror on the wall in the kitchen so with no one around, I suck in a lungful of air and pivot on my toes. Oh, sweet Caroline, my butt is a centimeter away from hanging out of this jean skirt. If I were to bend over, my underwear would show, and possibly other girly things. Who the heck wears stuff this short?
Lars waddles into the kitchen and deposits his butt on my toes. He glances up at me with those droopy eyes and blinks once. “I don’t like you.”
He whines. I wiggle my toes, but he remains on my feet. With a sigh, I return my focus to the material that is not doing its job.
“Nice ass,” Oz says.
I spin, knocking Lars off, then realize I’ve given Oz a view of my rear so I spin again. Oz hooks his thumbs into his jean pockets and lazily cocks a hip against the door frame.
I’ve been avoiding him—on purpose. Because we kissed. Actually, I all but seduced him and then he kissed me and then there was lots of touching and then I sort of blackmailed him.
Warmth curls up my neck and I’m not sure if it’s from the guilt of blackmailing him or from the dreams I’ve had since Sunday of us kissing again.
His hair is wet so he must have been the person in the shower earlier. My heart flutters at the damp sight and the way one charcoal strand hangs over those blue eyes. And those eyes are now trained on the mirror because he can still see my... My hands fly to my bottom and I try to yank the material down farther.
“Don’t stop,” he says in this low tone that vibrates against my insides. “It’s sexy as hell you’re checking yourself out.”
Fire burns my cheeks. “I was not checking myself out.”
“Yeah, you were, but as I said—don’t stop. I’ve seen a lot of asses and yours is one of the best, though to make a proper evaluation, I’d have to see the whole thing.”
He winks. And smiles. That smile. The wicked one. My mouth slackens and while part of me is absolutely frozen with embarrassment, another stupid part of me melts.
With a small wooden box in her hands, Olivia enters the kitchen. “What do you need to see?”
“Emily’s ass,” Oz answers as if this is normal conversation. “Emily was checking hers out in the mirror and I told her that I agreed that it looked nice.”
“I never said that was what I was doing,” I say as fast as I can. “I was looking at the skirt and I was wondering if it was too short and—”
“It’s just right.” Olivia studies me like I’m a runway model. “Those clothes belong to Violet. Izzy ran by there to pick you up some stuff. Violet’s taller than you, so it would be too short on her. Besides, you’re a McKinley. We have fine asses. Be proud of your body, honey, it sags with time.”
“I was not checking out my ass.”
“Yes, you were.” Oz pulls a mug out of the cupboard and fills it with coffee. “And it was fine for you to do it. As I said, nice ass.”
Oz hands Olivia the steaming mug as she sits at the table. She accepts it with a nod of gratitude. “We might have to prohibit ass conversations. Emily’s redder than a fire truck.”
“I am not.” I so am.
“I’m considering telling everyone we’ll have to be conservative while she’s here,” she continues like I hadn’t spoken. “I was even weighing whether or not to bake cookies.”
Conservative? Olivia wears a pair of glued-on jeans and a white camisole that shows the outline of her bra. She has the blue silk scarf on her head again and today her gold dangly earrings reach her shoulders. From the obituary, I learned that she’s in her fifties and she’s one of those women who boasts fifty better than most people own their twenties.
“Don’t let her bake cookies,” Oz warns me. “She burns them and then gets pissed off when we use them as weapons.”
“Yeah. I am.” Dad’s tall like me. A year ago, I matched his height. A few gray strands mingle with his short black hair. He exhales as if he’s weighted and that catches my attention. “That graduation gift was because we thought you’d be joining the business this week. It wasn’t a gift for joining the club.”
“I know.” In order to work for the security company, I earned my gun permit a few weeks ago.
“This stuff with Emily and the Riot has complicated our world. It’s a heavy thing, carrying. A certain responsibility. You can’t bring back a life once it’s taken. You know if you need to talk about anything...the club, this stuff with Emily...anything—I’m here.”
Raised in this life for eighteen years, I know this, but if Dad needs to say it, I’ll give him the respect he deserves. “I’m good.”
“Then we’re good. Watch your six,” he says as a reminder to watch my back.
“Same to you.”
Without a word to anyone, Eli and Cyrus straddle their bikes and strap on their helmets. That one act causes everyone else to mount up and start their motorcycles. Soon the yard shakes with the thunder of angry engines. Cyrus pulls out with Eli on his right. They head onto Thunder Road toward the main drag and the guys follow behind them in pairs.
On the porch, Mom watches the men ride off. She won’t sleep much until Dad’s back in town. Olivia appears beside Mom and wraps an arm around Mom’s waist. Sitting inside on the window seat with sexy disheveled hair is my responsibility for the next week: Emily.
Reminder to self: hands off.
Emily
FOR SOME ODD reason there’s a full-length mirror on the wall in the kitchen so with no one around, I suck in a lungful of air and pivot on my toes. Oh, sweet Caroline, my butt is a centimeter away from hanging out of this jean skirt. If I were to bend over, my underwear would show, and possibly other girly things. Who the heck wears stuff this short?
Lars waddles into the kitchen and deposits his butt on my toes. He glances up at me with those droopy eyes and blinks once. “I don’t like you.”
He whines. I wiggle my toes, but he remains on my feet. With a sigh, I return my focus to the material that is not doing its job.
“Nice ass,” Oz says.
I spin, knocking Lars off, then realize I’ve given Oz a view of my rear so I spin again. Oz hooks his thumbs into his jean pockets and lazily cocks a hip against the door frame.
I’ve been avoiding him—on purpose. Because we kissed. Actually, I all but seduced him and then he kissed me and then there was lots of touching and then I sort of blackmailed him.
Warmth curls up my neck and I’m not sure if it’s from the guilt of blackmailing him or from the dreams I’ve had since Sunday of us kissing again.
His hair is wet so he must have been the person in the shower earlier. My heart flutters at the damp sight and the way one charcoal strand hangs over those blue eyes. And those eyes are now trained on the mirror because he can still see my... My hands fly to my bottom and I try to yank the material down farther.
“Don’t stop,” he says in this low tone that vibrates against my insides. “It’s sexy as hell you’re checking yourself out.”
Fire burns my cheeks. “I was not checking myself out.”
“Yeah, you were, but as I said—don’t stop. I’ve seen a lot of asses and yours is one of the best, though to make a proper evaluation, I’d have to see the whole thing.”
He winks. And smiles. That smile. The wicked one. My mouth slackens and while part of me is absolutely frozen with embarrassment, another stupid part of me melts.
With a small wooden box in her hands, Olivia enters the kitchen. “What do you need to see?”
“Emily’s ass,” Oz answers as if this is normal conversation. “Emily was checking hers out in the mirror and I told her that I agreed that it looked nice.”
“I never said that was what I was doing,” I say as fast as I can. “I was looking at the skirt and I was wondering if it was too short and—”
“It’s just right.” Olivia studies me like I’m a runway model. “Those clothes belong to Violet. Izzy ran by there to pick you up some stuff. Violet’s taller than you, so it would be too short on her. Besides, you’re a McKinley. We have fine asses. Be proud of your body, honey, it sags with time.”
“I was not checking out my ass.”
“Yes, you were.” Oz pulls a mug out of the cupboard and fills it with coffee. “And it was fine for you to do it. As I said, nice ass.”
Oz hands Olivia the steaming mug as she sits at the table. She accepts it with a nod of gratitude. “We might have to prohibit ass conversations. Emily’s redder than a fire truck.”
“I am not.” I so am.
“I’m considering telling everyone we’ll have to be conservative while she’s here,” she continues like I hadn’t spoken. “I was even weighing whether or not to bake cookies.”
Conservative? Olivia wears a pair of glued-on jeans and a white camisole that shows the outline of her bra. She has the blue silk scarf on her head again and today her gold dangly earrings reach her shoulders. From the obituary, I learned that she’s in her fifties and she’s one of those women who boasts fifty better than most people own their twenties.
“Don’t let her bake cookies,” Oz warns me. “She burns them and then gets pissed off when we use them as weapons.”
